


Make Them Count

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blow Jobs, Needles, Other, Power Play, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were horror stories that came out of both bases about the Medics. Tales of vivisection, sensory deprivation. Those were the mild ones. More adventurous theories spoke of kidnapping of other team members, of doing unspeakable things to dead bodies. Somehow, what he did to you was ten times worse than any of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Them Count

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Inspired by this (extremely NSFW/suggestive) audio clip on Tumblr: 
> 
> http://leon-nin.tumblr.com/post/139355519608/frogdragon-teuforts-red-light-district

The room is cold and unfriendly. You can't see anything through the thick blindfold wrapped around your face, but you can imagine pretty well. You shift slightly in your bindings, flexing your muscles against the thick rope-

No, wait, it's thinner than that. In places it folds and twists over. By craning your thumb towards your wrist, you can feel the bindings. It's soft, but roughly textured. When you pull on it, it bites into your skin viciously. You try to concentrate on the blindfold. By resting your head back against the chair-wall, maybe?-you can feel the hard lump of a knot pressing into your skull. It gives a little just like the bindings around your wrists. Your head hurts dully, throbbing with each powerful beat of your heart, and you can't figure out what you're tied with.

You swallow and realise that your throat is dry. Your tongue darts out to try and moisten chapped lips. Have you ever been this thirsty before? The sounds you're making echo around the space in a hollow manner, a mockery of your attempts to escape. Seized by terror and a pressing need in your chest to _get the fuck out_ , you thrash and writhe in your bindings. The hard heel of your shoe clicks on the floor and your pause. Breath heaving, you do so again, more gently, listening to the clear sound. By tracing your foot around, you can feel shallow dips in the floor, laid out like a grid. Tiles, then.

As you draw in another breath, the sharp smell of antiseptic and iodine invades your airways. It scours your nose and throat clean and makes you gag slightly. If the scent of a hospital and a prison could be combined, this would be it. You take care to breathe through your mouth from now on.

In the silence, a clock ticks.

You count the seconds, one by one, ears straining for any other sound. Aside from yourself and the clock, the room is desolate. You think you hear doors opening and closing very faintly, ghosts of footsteps coming from-where?

A floorboard creaks overhead.

The room is still cold and harsh. Underground, perhaps?

Nightmarish, definitely.

Licking your lips again, you dive into a fervent daydream of a glass of water. In your mind, you watch fat drops of condensation slide down the side of the glass to fall on the tiled floor with a sharp _plick_. The water in the glass is crystal clear, embellished with cloudy ice cubes that clink and chatter invitingly-

The daydream shatters silently as the very clear and close by sound of a door opening echoes throughout the room. The door flaps shut, then closed. A hinge squeaks slightly. Then, after a moment, soft footsteps circle widely around, stopping somewhere off to your right.

In the last three seconds your heart has erupted in your chest and you buck and writhe in your restraints like a thoroughbred horse. You kick whatever you're tied to in your frenzy and the metal it's made of rings dully. You feel it pinch into the backs of your knees, and the coldness of it through the clothes on your back. Metal. Your fingernails scrape of the same metal that your arms are lashed down to. A metal chair, with no cushions, and what felt like rings sunk into the arms, made for tying things (or people) onto.

The cold of the metal isn't what makes you shiver then.

You snap your head to and fro, trying to figure out where that person is, what they're doing. As soon as they stopped walking, you lost "sight" of them. A lack of sound translated into invisibility and every hair on your body stood up on end as you heard the unmistakable sound of thin latex gloves being pulled onto hands.

Suddenly, everything falls into place.

The stench of the antiseptic and iodine. The cotton material of your thick bindings-bandages. The tiled floor. Even the metal chair. Everything in this place is dressed with sterility and medical precision. It's the examination room from Hell, and you're praying to anyone who might be listening that it isn't the doctor who owns this place that's just pulled on those rubber gloves.

You can hear sounds ten thousand times more sharply, now. A sort of cervine urgency has come upon you; every sound amplified until it echoes in between your ears. You can hear soft metal tinkling sounds, the chink of glass and the faint, irregular rustles of fabric. That's when the humming starts.

It's that that later you recall as the most morbid thing. The way he hummed quietly under his breath, some brisk and casual tune, as though he were tidying strewn clothes away, or washing the dishes. Not making preparation for the worst thing you think you've ever experienced.

You can't see him, of course, and he loves that. Unbeknownst to you, he's been watching your every move and struggle, drinking it in with longing, thirsting eyes. He has to tear his gaze away to the tray before him, to ready the injection. The name of the chemical in the tiny glass phial has some long and ridiculous name. There are hazard warnings on the side of the label, tiny cautions in orange and red. He ignores them, and loads a syringe with 35 CCs of whatever is in the phial. Then, he holds it up to the light, and flicks the syringe with his fingernail. The clarity of the sound mirrors that of the contents of the syringe. How innocent it looks when undressed of all those silly warnings and dosage instructions. Another syringe, already loaded, waits patiently in the tray.

Your head snaps in his direction as that sound meets you. It dredges up memories of childhood jabs in the doctor's office and after a moment, you begin to buck and thrash again. This time, an inhuman howl accompanies your actions. The hollow qualities of whatever space you've been incarcerated in distort your voice, and feed it back to you as a ghoulish, banshee wail.

Unseen, a predatory grin spreads slowly on his face.

He wishes you could've seen the way the harsh white light flashes on his canines. He filed them himself a few years ago, practiced his leonine smile in front of the mirror.

But he contents himself with the fact that you will see that smile soon enough and he gives the loaded syringe it's final check as you continue to try and break free. An arc of the clear venomous substance glitters briefly in space as he clears the needle of air, landing soundlessly on the floor.

He makes no attempts to keep his footsteps quiet, this time. His shoes must be well made, because they click authoratively against the tiled floor. If possible, you squirm even harder, ignoring the spasms of pain that result from you crashing your head and elbows back against the metal again and again. He stops not half a foot away from you, assessing the writhing mass of muscle, blood and bone before him in a clinically detached manner.

_Such a defined mandible...And look at the way the jugular vein jumps up in the neck. Truly a magnificent creature._

He switches the syringe to the other hand and the thin latex of his glove isn't enough of a barrier to prevent you from feeling that feather light touch. It traces the tendons on the back of your hand fleetingly, disappearing after only a second.

Your fiery blood cools instantly to ice. And that ice racing through your veins freezes you. You are reduced to panting shallowly, your body now stone like, as you instinctively try to stay still in the hopes that this predator will lose sight of you. That smile quirks on his lips again; he thinks that the deer in the headlights look suits you perfectly.

Now that you are petrified, he makes a more purposeful examination of the back of your hand. Heat radiating through the latex glove suggests this monster is human. You shiver again and his eyes flicker up to study your face for a moment, before his searching touch continues. With medical precision, he maps the tendons of your hand with the tips of his fingers, following them up over your wrist and up your shoulder. His touch leaves a trail of goose bumps in its wake. His fingers linger for a moment at the juncture of your neck and jaw. He's taking your pulse, and that moment of stillness between you stands out like a shard of glass in the memories you are left with later.

Somehow, he made it intimate.

For perhaps a minute, he stands there, counting off silently in his mind each contraction of your frenzied muscle. You hate yourself for willing your pulse to slow, for succeeding in finding that primal calm attached to a resting heartbeat. Your gut decides for you that the best way out now is to comply, and hope that that is rewarded with freedom. You will not yield anything to him, but you will not fight either.

In the metal chair, you feel yourself try to become an empty space, a human body existing in that moment alone. You are fuelled only by your now-bridled fear, and the hope that each flutter of breath into your lungs will not be your last.

He watches this change occur as he's taking your pulse, notes the exact moment when your brain yields to the primeval desire to survive. You turn into a creature of caution under his hand; he knows with certainty you are thinking of nothing except him. No memories from before will cross your mind until you leave this room, no overambitious hopes will infect your thoughts. He has hypnotised you, and all without saying a single word.

He permits himself to briskly lick his lips, finding that excitement and anticipation have drained all the moisture from his mouth. Now, he has the perfect canvas. No concerns or emotions other than the basest animal need to live colour your actions or your skin. He plans to paint you all in aching, palpitating red. He wants to hear you scream in all the shades of scarlet under the sun.

He's going to chain you to him like an addict to a drug, make you bow him like a slave before a god.

And he's going to do it in under three hundred seconds.

He collects himself and suddenly the pressure of those fingers at your neck is gone. You gulp in air, not realising you had been holding your breath. You feel those same fingers working in your hair, gently encouraging you to dip your head down. The knot in the back of your blindfold loosens. Bandages are unwound neatly from over your eyes and even with your head bowed, you are forced to screw up your eyes and blink dumbly in the bright, dazzling light.

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to refocus. Grey, indistinct shapes form gradually into solid objects. You find yourself studying his shoes intently, staring stupidly at your own distorted reflection in the mirror polish of his black boots. A hand neatly cups your chin, encouraging you to look up. His clothes are formal and crisp-the white of his coat perfectly starched and pressed. The black boots fit him well, and show of the muscles of his legs. The angle his coat is buttoned at directs your rising gaze to his crotch and then you're following the row of buttons along his breast, up to a red tie and ironed collar that sit so close to his throat they must be vacuum sealed to his skin.

Your eyes struggle to focus again as they're hit with the full force of the examination lights. The flares of light fall into a crooked halo around his head, and his face is in full shadow. The angle you're looking up at prevents you from seeing his face, but you realise with a shudder that he's looking down at you. The darkness does nothing to veil the intensity of his gaze and you focus instead somewhere over his shoulder. An insistent motion of his hand redirects you back to where he wants you to look. You notice that he cocks his head just slightly as he traces the curve of your bottom lip with his thumb. The motion is soft and inquisitive, but intrusive as well. Vulgar. Possessive.

You are suddenly very aware of the calculated height difference between you; if he released your head, you'll have nowhere to look other than straight at the buckle of his belt. Another shudder races through you and an altogether different fear takes hold, building in your nerves exponentially until you're shivering in your seat, ligaments turned to iron and your guts to ice water. You want to press your legs tight closed, lock them like a vice, but your thighs are pinned down to the seat of the chair and the most you can do is shuffle your feet around a little.

"Such a vivacious creature..." he murmurs under his breath.

The German accent only cements the misgivings you were already having.

There were horror stories that came out of both bases about the Medics. Tales of vivisection, sensory deprivation. Those were the mild ones. More adventurous theories spoke of kidnapping of other team members, of doing unspeakable things to dead bodies. The worst had come from Miss Pauling herself; she had told you uncertainly that the Pyro had been fine when he had joined the team, and after a "routine examination" had been left as the blubbering, overly friendly mess he was as you knew him. Afterwards, you notice the way Pyro shies away from Medic, hear the terrified whimpers coming out from the gas mask.

You wonder if perhaps Pyro was the first.

Sometimes you wondered how many of the loose ends you tied up were strings that Medic himself had cut. Administration had taken you on as a run about a little while ago, an assistant for the assistant. Thankfully, your work involved more filing and archiving than executing witnesses, but the compulsory day course in how to fire a handgun still stood out clearly in your mind. Something told you that there would be no magnums or revolvers in Medic's Infirmary.

The files said he had a more...Personal taste in terms of killing equipment.

You shiver again in the chair, eyes ducking away. You'd signed the shipping papers for the bone saws yourself. Again, he directs your eyes to his and he moves in just the right way to allow you to finally see his face.

The mug shots on the personnel files weren't flattering for any of the mercenaries. You supposed that in another life, Medic might've been an attractive man. The tint of grey in his hair suited his studious appearance and you couldn't think of many people who were opposed to the idea of either dating or fucking a man with such strong cheekbones, but the examination lights coloured him entirely differently here. Now, the chiselled line of his jaw was unpleasantly sharp, the quirk of a smile on his lips now looking more like a sneer than a restrained smile. Those striking, ice grey eyes which had seemed so inquisitive and polite when you were formally introduced to the rest of the team were now harsh and leonine. As you look up at him, he unconsciously licks his lips. What kind of predator have you stumbled upon, that licks it's lips before going for the kill?

He studies your face for a moment more before releasing your jaw and, mercifully, turning away. You visibly sag in your bonds without the weight of that gaze upon you, breathing in a deep breath. You can feel your skin cooling where his hand had held you. After a moment, he returns, this time pulling a wheeled tray. He picks up a syringe from the tray and holds it up before the examination light so you can see the wicked sharp needle. You feel bruises form on your back and elbows as you writhe harder than ever in your bonds. Whatever is in the syringe, you do not want in your veins.

You are, however, expertly bound and he ignores your thrashing as he deftly taps out a vein on the back of your handle and carefully inserts the needle. When he depresses the plunger, you feel icy liquid spread under your skin. And then nothing.

He expertly catches your face again and this time is much rougher when he brings your  gaze up to meet his. He's squeezing your jaw almost painfully and the combination of that and the insane light in his eyes makes you stop thrashing.

"What...What did you inject me with?" you ask. Your voice is rough and hoarse from thirst and disuse.  The predatory grin which you had been unable to see earlier spreads onto his face now and you watch his tongue trace over his teeth, feeling the unnaturally sharp points of the canines.

His other hand works slowly and carefully at his belt and horror sweeps over you like a tide. His next words are low and venomous, tinted with glee and that rough sound men get in their voice when they're plagued with a particularly animal kind of lust.

You damn yourself when that voice bolts straight to your belly, and melts the ice encasing your most private of parts just a little. His free hand finishes unbuckling his belt and though you can't see directly, you get the impression that he's palming himself through his pants. You watch his pulse jump in his neck.

"I have injected you with a poison that will kill you in five minutes. If you want the antidote, _mien liebe_ , you will make them count."

You don't hear the sound of his pants hitting the floor over the hammering of your heartbeat in your ears. You lean back as far as the hand gripping your jaw will allow, but there's nothing you can do when he follows you down and possesses your lips. It's the sort of kiss that could make anyone melt; all heat and the sensation of smiling, a little nip at your bottom lip that makes you quiver in more than fright. You get the impression he's kissed lots of people like that, in this chair, and at this point he enjoys observing reactions more than anything. Uncertain of whether he's telling the truth, but unwilling to risk it, you allow yourself to moan breathily when he breaks the kiss, lean forwards into his palm as he straightens up again. As much as disgust coils in your belly like a writhing snake, you try to make yourself look as though you're enjoying this. You can't be sure (You have no doubt after this that Medic's got an excellent poker face), but your life might be riding on how quickly you could figure out and play upon this man's kinks.

You hope moaning is one of them.

The hand grudgingly leaves your jaw now, directing something else towards your mouth. Uncertain you'll be able to stand the sight, you make yourself close your eyes and force your jaw open as he slides inside with a hiss. He's bigger than you thought and you crane your neck awkwardly to try and accommodate his length. You found out in college from a more promiscuous friend one of the best ways to bypass the gag reflex was to fold over the top joint of your thumb and miraculously, that trick worked. You feel him slide all the way to the back of your throat and settle there with a hot, heavy heat. The closely cropped hair at his crotch tickles your nose and you can smell nothing other than his musk and sweat. Another shudder ripples through you as he agonizingly pulls back and slides back in again. After that, he gives you a little free reign and uncertain in your limits, you focus shallowly around the head of his cock, bobbing in quick, unadventurous motions. You hear him click his tongue in disapproval and purr;

"I know you can do better than that _, liebling_."

A frown flitters onto your face and he chuckles darkly, moving to entwine a hand in the dishevelled layers of your hair. He cards his fingers through it, petting you like a cat, as you brave the waters a little more and drag your teeth along his length as you move back. He hisses in approval and you wonder how many minutes you've got left as you settle into this task you've been given. You feel yourself focus as you never have before, looking for ways to move your tongue and throat together which you might never have otherwise thought of even as you feel the poison begin to burn in your veins. Each muttered curse or bored sigh guides you as you suck and hum around him, rippling the muscles in your jaw and clacking your tongue on the underside of his shaft.

"One minute more, _liebling._ " he murmurs, voice huskier than before.

You feel panic seep into your blood and your motions become a little more frantic as you bury your nose in his crotch, swallowing with some difficulty. Deep throat was the best you could do, and if you died anyway, at least he couldn't say you hadn't tried to be inventive first. The pain in your blood is blistering now, lava scouring you from the inside out, and a convulsing sob of agony wracks you. You force yourself to stay like that for three seconds, then five, then ten. Somehow, the pain continues to mount. Eventually, he sighs with satisfaction and pulls out with disappointment. The harsh lights up above blind you again as he leaves your field of vision. Again, he hums that jaunty little tune under his breath and you don't think you've ever felt hatred and disgust quarrel so bitterly in your heart before. Your vision is starting to fade and blur and you just feel so damn tired that at this point, death will only be a blessing. You close your eyes again and wait patiently to leave life's embrace.

He encourages you to tilt your head to the side and expose the throbbing vein in your neck in a way that's deceptively gentle. The thin sting of the needle entering your skin is a relief as cooling, soothing antidote spreads through your veins. As it works through your body, you feel your strength return. The pain is washed away like leaves in a flood. When your eyes flitter open, your sight is clear and focused again. All at once, you're overjoyed and yet empty. You want to laugh and cry and scream, but also just sleep and finally wake up from this nightmare. It's all too easy to let him slide himself between your lips once again, swallow obediently as he empties himself into your throat with a long, drawn out sigh.

The intimacy which had somehow surrounded the two of your broke off quickly after that. He hastily removes himself from your mouth, cleans up and dresses again as you sit up straighter in the chair. He approaches with another syringe, slides it gently into that same vein in the back of your hand as he previously attempted to kill you with.

"Morphine, for the pain and something else, to keep you tame."

"How do...I know...You're not poisoning me...Again?" Your voice is a paper thin whisper, hoarse and devoid of emotion.

"I am a doctor, mien liebe. I must do no harm."

Of course you can't trust those words. You filed away the voided medical license yourself. But the irony doesn't escape you and a weak, sarcastic breath of laughter escapes you as you feel your body begin to refuse your commands to move. The blindfold is slipped back over your eyes. You are dimly aware of the restraints being removed from your wrists and ankles and though you want to drag your nails across his face, you're as limp as ragdoll. That's how he picks you up from the chair as well, carrying you bridal style to what you guess is the back of a vehicle of some kind. You feel his muscles flex under his coat as he balances you carefully in his arms, stepping up and arranging you on a medical bed before releasing you and closing two doors. It still smells like antiseptic and iodine. Must be the ambulance he kept around.

The engine shudders into life and the ambulance pulls away. Everything you've been through, all the energy you've expended, leaves you drained and tired. It isn't long before the steady, rhythmic sway of the ambulance in motion lulls you into deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

When you wake up, all of your body aches and your mouth is dry with thirst. Birds chirp outside your window and you groan as you sit up, rubbing the back of your head. Sunlight blazes through the slats of your blind and you groggily study the zebra stripes this produces on your bed covers. That was the most vivid nightmare you'd had in a while.

The realisation hits you and you laugh to yourself as you sit up fully. Just a dream! Thank God-

Wait.

You look down at the back of your hand. A small bundle of cotton wool is taped there, just over the now-docile vein that crosses under your skin. Dread floods through you as you throw back the covers and stumble over to the mirror. You rip down the hem of your sleeping shirt and-there. A matching bundle of cotton taped over the vein of your neck. With shaking hands, you slowly pull off the tape so that the cotton bundle flaps free of your skin. A tiny dot of red marks the underside and when you push it back into place with your finger, it lines up perfectly with the tiny red dot on your neck.

The birds have stopped chirping now.

You are comforted by nothing other than the creaks of the house around you as you crumple over before the mirror, finally allowing yourself to cry. The carpet drinks up your tears remarkably well and an indeterminate amount of time passes before you reach up to your dresser and fumble for your phone. You flip it open and click through the contacts. Your voice is weak and croaky when the line is finally put through.

"Hello? I need to speak to Miss Pauling. Now."

You decide then that you would quite like to be involved in more of the interviews she conducts.

You also decide it's probably time for a refresher course with those revolvers you'd remembered earlier. There was one you kept in the glove locker of your car, loaded and ready. Just in case.

And now, one of the bullets in that revolver had Medic's name etched on it.

You wanted to make perfectly sure it found it's mark.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN: First time writing noncon. Nothing much to say about it other than that I wanted to test my boundaries, push my limits a little. I tried to keep you/the reader as gender neutral as possible here. I also may or may not write a sequel/epilogue/follow up for this some time in the future.
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!
> 
> ~Leon


End file.
